Eyes On Me
by WitheringSage
Summary: Raja and Tristan think about their growing feelings for one another.


**Eyes on Me**

_So let me come to you  
Close as I want to be  
Close enough for me  
To feel your heart beating fast...  
_

Chronology: Tristan is 24. Raja is 14.

**Raja...**

The thunder booms and the lightning lashes violently outside. I cringe and shudder, trying to slow my racing heart. I lay in my bed restlessly for a few more minutes, until my fear gets the best of me. I get out of bed and leave my room, walking through the halls to Tristan's. And I hope he is in there tonight. Sometimes he has not been. But when I open his door slowly, there he is, and already I feel safe. As if he knew I was coming, he turns over on his side and pulls the blankets back so I can slide in next to him. We lay face to face, me pressed as close to his body as I can get, his arms wrapping securely around me. The sky sounds its agony and I cannot help but flinch.

"Okay?" he asks me in the darkness.

I nod, my forehead brushing against his chest. The rain splatters against the windows, and it is the only sound I hear save for the steady breathing of Tristan. I close my eyes and let myself drift; yet, not into slumber, but into thought. I lift my head slightly to see his face. The face that captivates me in a whole different way than when I was younger. Beautiful, I have always thought, but now I add handsome. I cannot pinpoint when I began to take in Tristan's presence as a man. A man I know he is and always was, but I mean a man as in someone a woman would put her lips to, or take into her bed. I cannot think of it without feeling bashful.

Maybe it started when I dreamt the two of us had kissed. And when I saw him the next morning, I wondered what it would be like to kiss him. I've never been kissed. I always think with bitterness that the kiss usually comes before the sex, but for me, it was the other way around. What would Tristan think of he knew I looked at him like this? After he falls asleep I let my eyes graze over him. His sharp, tattooed cheekbones, straight nose, full lips. I breathe him in and think: this must be what a real man smells like.

Lately, I have been more conscious of his body. On hot days, he wears no shirt while he is in the training grounds. I see the rippling of his muscles as he maneuvers his body with such grace. I found myself wanting to feel the mat of fine hair on his chest. Run my fingers down his upper-arm in the crease of every muscle. Feel his firm abdomen. Then I felt horribly embarrassed for even thinking such a thing and walked off.

I have always heard women talk around this place. Talk. Lewd talk. Vulgar talk. About men. When I was younger I was not so sure what they were speaking of, but as the years went by, I became familiar with terms they used. Dick. Cock. Cunt. Prick. I said those words aloud and they sounded so foreign and unnatural on my tongue that they might as well have been a different language. I decided I was not comfortable using those words, but at least I knew what they meant.

I've always heard talk of my brothers and Tristan. First, I had heard Tristan's name. The women always say he is rough, uncommunicative, unfeeling, a beast, a bastard. And I want to jump up and tell them otherwise. He is not unfeeling, a beast or a bastard. As for rough, I could not deny that; though, he has never been so with me. And for uncommunicative, of course, he just isn't a talkative person, except for with me. It was a long time ago, and the only thing I heard them extol him with was "his size." There were gasps of delight, a chorus of gleeful agreement. I found it odd at the time, what was so exciting about his size? He's a very big man, yes, I had mused. Especially compared to me. His girth, I had taken it that they had been referring to his broad of shoulder. It was not until years later it dawned on me that they had been speaking of what he looked like down _there_. These days, whenever they talk about such things, I walk away. It makes me wonder too much.

Because now I wonder, how big exactly is he down there? What does it look like? I wonder if all men look the same...surely they can't all be the same size because..._They_ were not all the same size. I have never seen any intimate parts of Tristan, nor have I ever cared to...until now. And the prospect of it intrigues and scares me at the same time._Theirs_ were ugly, horrifying, flashes of _Them_ still plague me. But I can't imagine anything being so ugly on Tristan, nothing about him scares me. Next to my uncle, he is the man I feel safest with.

I tuck my head back under Tristan's chin and scooch closer. He is so warm. Solid. I dislike not knowing. And as I lay here next to him I ask why do other women get to know Tristan in such an intimate manner but I do not? In the past, he has told me that I bring him peace, but what of pleasure? Is that not a part of life as well? I would gladly give him that if I knew how. That is, if he could even stomach the thought of (what should I call it?) making love to me. What would that be like...to have Tristan...inside of me, like a man does a woman? Would he fit? Would I be too small? Would it feel good or would it tear me and make me bleed like _Theirs_ did?

I know I am not beautiful, or even pretty, but one does not have to be to take a lover, I suppose. What does Tristan see when he looks at me? Maybe...maybe, in the future he would see me differently. Perhaps, want me. I try to clearly imagine him and me making love. I know not what is supposed to go on...and I feel like an idiot being so uninformed. I would make a fool of myself in front of him, me so...inexperienced...in a way. I picture Tristan being gentle and patient. I picture caresses and soft kisses. I don't know anything beyond that. I don't know anything at all. All I know is the violence, the pain, burning, ripping...No, no, I think now. It is torment knowing that _They_ were in me first. Tristan knows of_Them_. Even if my Trissy would ever want me, could he see passed _Them?_ Could anyone?

Now I am tired. I fall asleep in his arms.

**Tristan...**

I had a feeling she would come to my room this night. The weather is poor, the lightning and thunder discomfits her. I pull back the covers as she slips in my bed, she cuddles close to me and I hold her tightly, ensuring her safety with me. Lately, I have been taking to sleeping elsewhere. And if she comes to my room on those nights I am not here, she never shows it. The lightning strikes like a whip and she buries herself deeper against me, that I can feel her soft breasts against my chest. Once again, I try to resist those damned thoughts, pushing them away and away. It is not until she is fully asleep can I fall asleep myself, inhaling the clean scent of her hair.

When I wake up in the morning Raja is pressed against my back, her arm draped over me, mine over hers. It is not fully dawn yet, and it is still drizzling outside. I realize that I have been stroking the back of her hand with my thumb, and I stop, monitoring to see if she is awake. Her hands are soft, small, delicate and I cannot help but run my thumb over the velvet skin some more. Slowly, so not to disturb her, I turn over to face her, to look at her serene face. Wavy tendrils are wisps on her face and I reach out to tuck them behind her ear, but my hand hovers for a moment before I softly push back her hair, the tips of my fingers grazing her face.

Her fists are now tucked under chin, her lips have a slight pout to them, her breathing is a whisper. Against my better judgment I let myself look at her as a man looks at a beautiful woman. This is why I take to sleeping in my barracks. These thoughts I have of her as of late. At times, I see her in a different light, my eyes linger on things they should not. She is only a few months passed fourteen but the essence of a real woman glows around her. I damn myself when I watch the sway of her hips, the curves of her breasts. I damn myself when I think of kissing those lips of hers – smooth, soft. I want her lips to touch me somewhere other than my cheek.

I know she does not think herself beautiful; she tries to hide her body. But damn me and damn the gods, I think she is the most beautiful sight in this world. I compare every other woman to her, and when I think of Raja, my own body stirs, and I try to hold back, but the buildup of my desire needs a release, but it is to other women I go to purge myself of my own guilt. Because those women are not who I want to be inside of.

Raja shivers and I pull the blankets up. She moves closer to me, unconsciously, in her sleep, which I am wary of because I am struggling to alleviate the tight aching in my groin. Waking up to my erection pressed against her is not something I want. The first night that happened, months ago, is what prompted me to stay away for several weeks. She trusts me. And that is the bittersweetness of it. She trusts me. If I were to make one small overture to her, I know she would not pull away. But it would break a foundation inside of her, because _They_ (as she refers to them) are still close to her. And my inherent need to protect her overrides my want. And I will truly be damned if she ever looks at me with fear.

Men around this place have taken to noticing her. And not just for her utter disparity between her appearance and the majority of other women around here, but because she is growing. When she was younger, I was the same as I am now, a bodyguard. But now I guard her from their eyes. I see how they look at her. Lust. Need. Curiosity. Undressing her, wondering what she looks like under her unrevealing clothes. I'm all the more defensive because...I wonder the same things. But I tell myself there is a difference between me and those other men. They would never be gentle with her like I would. They would not be attentive or mindful of her vulnerability like I would. And they would never look at her, touch her, or love her like I would...like I do.

True, I can't remember a time when I was gentle with a woman. Maybe before I stopped caring about the other getting any pleasure. I take mine, my release, and leave. But with Raja, I know I could be tender. She brings that out in me. She deserves memories of a man loving her body, and I want that man to be me.

How would she feel if she knew I felt this way about her? Would she be frightened of the intensity of it? Gods, she's fourteen, would she even know how to respond to it? Could I show her without breaking any peace of mind she has about males?

I lay here looking at her, so innocent. A virgin in my eyes.

Her eyelids flutter, slowly revealing her silver irises to me. She smiles sleepily, waking content. On the inside, I sigh, no...I could not, not now.

She moves slightly, and she looks at me questioningly. "Did you wear your belt to bed?" Raja lifts up the blanket to look.

I move as swiftly as I can, trying not to be too obvious.

"I didn't feel it last night." She sees me leaning over. "Trissy? Are you okay?" She kneels on the bed beside me. "Your face is red. Are you sick?" She looks worried as she feels my forehead. "You're warm."

"I'm fine," I tell her, my voice husky. The sound of a man wanting.

"You have a sore throat, Trissy." She gets off the bed. "You should lie back down; I'll get you some tea, all right?"

"I said I'm fine."

She stops and crosses her arms over her chest. "Do you want the tea or do you want me to get Dagonet?" Her small foots taps on the ground.

I hang my head. "Tea."

"Okay." Quickly, she kisses me on the head. I watch her walk out, and when the door closes behind her I release the groan that had built up in my chest.

I wait until my erection abates, and when it does, my groin feels as if someone kicked it. My sigh is heavy. Tonight, I sleep in my barracks.

_And stay there as I whisper  
How I loved your peaceful eyes on me  
Did you ever know  
That I had mine on you_...

_-Faye Wong _

5/19/07


End file.
